


The Drink of Death

by railise



Category: Robin Hood (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-08
Updated: 2011-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-20 06:09:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/railise/pseuds/railise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robin awakes to an impossible situation.  Set between 2x01 and 2x02; not AU, but kind of an extreme missing adventure between episodes.  Vague spoilers for the run of the show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: Fairly grotesque description of a corpse, and a claustrophobic situation.

He was in a box.

That was not the first thing Robin noticed when he regained consciousness-- his initial realizations were of a blinding pain in his head and the fact that he could not see,-- but it was simple to deduce. He was unable to move much; however, the small area that he was able to reach confirmed that he was surrounded by wood. Judging from the man-sized dimensions, and supported by the fact that he was on his back, it was possible that he was in a coffin-- but he preferred to think of it simply as a "box." That word was less likely to inspire panic.

The throbbing in his skull that he'd been ignoring thus far attacked him with a vengeance, and his instinctive attempt to grab his head was thwarted by the close confines of the space. He had no idea of how he had wound up here; his last memory was of making a delivery in Nettlestone. Obviously, an enemy had awaited him there; else he would not be waking up in a damned crate. What had happened there, he wished he knew. Either way, he needed to get out of _here_.

When the pain subsided, he managed to raise his arms somewhat by crossing them over his chest, one at a time. With that accomplished, he pushed against the wood opposite his face, but to no avail; it would not budge. There was no space to allow for proper leverage, nor could he try with his knees. He noticed that the air was a little stuffy, and suddenly became aware that the lack of light could indicate a lack of air, which instilled a whole new immediacy to the situation. Forcing himself to remain calm, he reached out with his toes, to see if his feet were near a side of the box. It happened that there was one right beneath them, and he wriggled his way as far down as he could go. Then, pulling his legs up the inch or so available, he kicked against the end. He was unable to get much force that way, but he was hoping he might be able to knock it loose-- or even better, off.

No such luck.

Feeling anxiety start to rise again, he closed his eyes and concentrated on relaxing. That did not work as well as he'd hoped, but when he had a hold on himself once more, he methodically pushed against each side of the crate. He met with no success, and weighed his options. He could try pounding on it or shouting, but someone had put him here very deliberately; and if they were still nearby, they might decide to shut him up permanently. Maybe he could wedge his sword between two of the sides and somehow pry them apart? He was unsure if there was enough room to allow him to apply sufficient force, but it was worth a shot. It was actually going to be rather a feat removing the blade from its scabbard, but he was hardly going anywhere soon, so he had the time.

What he did not have, he discovered, was his sword. Nor, for that matter, were his bow or quiver here. Cursing under his breath, he acknowledged that he should have expected that. Even if whoever had imprisoned him expected that he would not escape, the weapons were of high quality, and could be used... or kept as trophies.

 _Think!_ he commanded himself, wracking his aching brain for another idea. However, the desperation of his situation was starting to weigh down on him, and with it, the sense of being closed-in. Normally, Robin was fine in small spaces. Knowing that he had no potential means of getting out was definitely taking a toll, though. He could not be still, and squirmed around.

The movement brought his head into contact with the wood above him, causing not only a fresh wave of pain, but also making that board move. Having been unable to think very clearly or see that area, he had neglected to test it; now, it appeared to be his salvation. There was no way to get his hands up there, so he merely gritted his teeth against the agony to come, and maneuvered a bit higher, pushing his head against the loose board. It took longer than he'd hoped, and he was queasy by the time the thing fell off, but he sucked in the wave of fresh air that washed over him, which helped to settle his stomach somewhat.

He tilted his head back, looking out of the open space as much as he could; if he pushed his way out of the box, only to fall on his skull, he would be in even more trouble than he already faced. Finally, it seemed Lady Luck was on his side; he was on a dirt floor, apparently in a barn or similar building. Bracing his heels on the bottom of the box, and his hands along the sides, he slowly inched his way up, his muscles protesting the unusual demands he was making of them. After what felt like an eternity, he had managed to move far enough that he could get his arms out, which enabled him to quickly finish the job.

Once he was finally free, he jumped to his feet-- only to nearly fall over sideways when his vision swam. Managing to avoid that, he eased to the floor, leaning against another crate that was beside the one from which he had just freed himself. He closed his eyes, resting back for a moment. The dizziness would not pass, and the nausea had returned, but he did not have time to be ill; he had to escape, had to find out what was going on.

 _Thump._

His eyes flew open as the knock reverberated through the wood he was leaning on and into his body. He scooted forward so that he could turn and look at it; it had not really registered to him that if he was leaning against a different box, that that could mean someone was inside of it, as he had been. Then, he realized that there were more. He slowly looked to his left, not from an attempt to minimize his disorientation, since that appeared to be impossible; but out of shock. When he saw more boxes laid out that way, he swung his head to the right, barely managing to maintain his sitting position with the harsh movement-- but he could not believe that there were even more in that direction. And that was not all; the way they were laid out--

He scooted back a bit further, and then somehow managed to get to his feet. He turned around, staggering as he did so, but he had to see it.

He was, indeed, in a barn. The floor was sprinkled here and there with sparse pieces of stale hay, now the hue of the dirt below them. There was barely any roof left, and weirdly, sunlight shone through, setting alight the myriad dust motes dancing through the air. The walls, on the other hand, appeared solid, allowing him to see nothing through them which would permit him to get his bearings. There was the box he had been in, the wide board clinging stubbornly to one side, despite being pushed out to nearly a right angle.

Beside his box was the one he had leaned on, and beside it was another, and another... Ten in all, laid out in a perfect circle, like spokes. And, in the middle, stood Robin.

Why? What could possibly possess somebody to take the time to so carefully arrange boxes full of people?

People! That "thump"! The haze in his brain was making him cling to each idea as it occurred to him, the rest drifting past like a murky breeze. He had not thought of the implications of the sound. Well, he had, but then he'd been distracted again--

\--just as he was doing now. "Concentrate," he growled to himself, and did so both mentally and visually as he made his way over to the box. Dropping to his knees beside it, he tried to pry up the board nearest him, but it would not budge. Pausing to look at the top, he noted that it consisted of three long, wide boards. Were there indeed a person within, the boards would be running from head to foot. He had been giving one of the edge pieces a go, but perhaps the middle one, with less places to secure it, would be easier to loosen.

Moving around to get a decent grip on that plank, he pulled. Within seconds, the thing popped up. With one more, quick yank, he had it completely free, and tossed it to the ground beside him before looking inside.

When he did, the urge to scream was only trumped by being so frozen in horror, not even his vocal cords could function. Shaking himself free of the paralysis, he braced himself on the remaining boards, leaning in to make sure he was not mistaken. He was not.

It was Marian, and she had been dead for some time. The creamy warmth of her skin now resembled curdled milk, blue veins crisscrossing her face, with bruising here and there where her blood had pooled. Her eyes were starting to sink behind her lids, and her hair had matted where it rested on a veil that had slid backward from her head, the circlet meant to keep it in place sticking out at an odd angle above her, like a demented halo. She wore an intricately embroidered gown of white on white, bespeaking her station in life and the purity she had worn into death, but the garment was not at all beautiful as it clashed with the new color of her flesh. Her hands, in much the same state as her face, rested on her chest, clutching a withered, blackened thing that may have once been a lily. She should have appeared at peace in her rest; instead, she just looked... dead.

Something plunked against her wrist, and then again; and it was not until the third droplet hit that Robin realized he was crying. "No," he whispered, shaking his head in denial, not even aware to wonder if his mind had finally cleared. _It could not be._ Granted, he had not been able to see her for over a week, but surely that was not enough time, surely he would have heard--

 _Thump._

His gaze tore away from the terrible sight, and settled on the box directly across the circle from Mari-- from that one. ( _It could not be Marian; it could_ not _be..._ )

He would figure this out later. He would come back to this when he could see straight, and then he would show himself that he had been mistaken. For now, there might be a person in that other crate who needed help. Forcing himself not to glance at the open box again, he stood, tripping slightly as the dizziness returned with a vengeance, somehow worse now than it had been before. He fell twice on his way over, but pulled himself upright both times, repeating his mantra: "Concentrate. Concentrate." Anything to keep from revisiting that image in his mind.

When he got to the other box, he immediately grasped the center board and jerked it off, tipping sideways in the process and managing to bash himself in the shoulder with the wood. Pushing off the ground, he decided crawling was his best bet, and approached the breached crate on his hands and knees. With extreme reluctance, he peered inside.

This time, when he froze, it was out of the most profound confusion he had ever experienced. Seeing Marian in the first box, in the state she was in, had felt impossible; however, that was only because he could not accept that she could be dead, and long enough for her to be in such a condition. But, no matter whether or not he was able to face that prospect, it truly _was_ impossible for her to also be in this box. Her dress was the same, she was positioned the same-- she was exactly the same.

His vision was still blurry, but the extremeness of the situation created a point of sharp focus, right at the middle, and he trained it on the first Marian-box. Indeed, when he looked back inside, she was still there. And also with the second Marian-box.

The point of focus vanished as he lost all coherent thought. There were more boxes, lots of them, and he had to know what was in each one. He went into a frenzy, so unmindful of his own presence that he no longer succumbed to his lack of balance, set only on one thing: discovering what was in each box. The barn became a mass of streaking color as he flew about, ripping apart crate after crate after crate, kicking to pieces those that would not cooperate, only noticing on the very edges of his consciousness that the impossibility of the situation increased with each box he destroyed.

It was not until he had finished, collapsing on his back in the center of the once-perfect circle as he gasped for air, that the realization crept from those edges and into his mind.

She was in all of them. Out of ten boxes, one had contained him; the rest held Marian.

Was he dead?

Was this Hell?

There could be no better Hell.

But, this was just one room, one building. What might await him outside?

He had never taken to procrastination, and he was hardly going to start now. If this was his eternity, he may as well learn what it entailed.

Rising once more, he started toward the barn doors, when a voice came from behind him.

"Robin."

His eyes drifted shut, causing him to weave against the fog in his head without a visual reference. It was Marian's voice, and yet, it was not; and he was not sure he wanted to turn around.

" _Robin._ "

She was closer now, but her voice sounded further away at the same time. If he had not already been so disoriented, that would have done it; in his present state, he had to open his eyes, or risk another fall.

" _ **Robin.**_ "

She was right behind him. Bracing himself, he turned around, and came face-to-face with a beloved nightmare. It was Marian, and it was not. Without the pressure of her skull on part of the circlet, the delicate ring hung off of the veil, where it had gotten snagged in the silk. Otherwise, she was just as she had been laying down... except for her eyes. They were open, from where they rested deeper in their sockets than they ever could in life; but besides that, they were normal, wide and blue and healthy. She stared at him expectantly, and he had no clue what she wanted.

If she had hoped to send him reeling in terror, she would be disappointed. Even in this abhorrent form, she was still Marian, and he would always love her, even if he could not say the words. "How did this happen? This cannot be; you must live. You _must!_ "

She frowned, tilting her head to the side, and reached out for him.

When she touched his shoulder, it was as if he had been struck by lightning. He convulsed, and everything went white--

\--and then black, and he was falling...


	2. Chapter 2

Still feeling a bit lethargic from being unconscious and trapped in a box, Much nonetheless caught Robin as he collapsed. He glanced over his unconscious friend to where Little John was staring at them, his baffled expression mirroring Much's own feelings.

"What was that all about?" Will asked, as Much gently lowered Robin to the barn floor. Meanwhile, Allan slumped on the edge of the crate he had been in, watching Djaq go over to examine their leader.

Checking his heartbeat and peering under his eyelids, she announced, "He has been drugged."

"He ain't the only one," muttered Allan, rubbing his hands over his face.

Djaq shook her head. "No, he has been given something different." She sighed, still trying to shake off the effects of her own state. "I need to find out what it was, if I am to help."

John frowned. "How did this happen? We were making our drop-off in Nettlestone, and the next thing I know, Robin is smashing open a box. And I'm in it."

They all mused over the problem, when Much suddenly looked up. "The water; I thought it tasted rather funny. Did anyone else get a drink from the soapmaker's daughter?"

There were murmurs of agreement, which turned into a collective anger against a family they had been trying to help. Will finally put up a hand. "Maybe it wasn't their fault. It could be that somebody was setting us up, and gave her the bucket to share with us. They might not even have known."

"That's a good point," John agreed.

"Or, it could be that the Sheriff paid them to do it," Much suggested irritably.

Allan dropped his hands. "Or, he threatened 'em."

They all realized that that was the most likely explanation; but while they could understand the motivation behind following such a directive, it still hurt knowing that they could not even trust the people who benefited from the risk into which they put themselves.

"So, are we still there?" Will finally wondered, heading toward the barn doors to answer his own question. He carefully peered out, in case there were guards waiting them, and then came back in. "We're not in Nettlestone; I'm not sure _where_ we are."

Allan dragged himself to his feet and went outside. When he came back in, he was no less confused. "It's just this barn, and the forest. I've never seen this place before." He was also clutching a bunch of weapons in each hand, as well as Much's shield. Between that and John's staff, they were all instantly aware that the items were theirs. "But I did find these outside. That's something, yeah?"

"We need to get back to Nettlestone and find the girl who did this," Djaq said. "If I do not find out what she gave Robin, I cannot say how long he will be like this." She hesitated before adding, "Or if he will ever come out of it."

* * *

When Robin emerged from the blackness, he was in a carriage, which felt like it was bouncing along a road at a fast clip. Fortunately, it was lushly appointed in silks, and the seats were generously padded; so even as he was jostled, the experience was not too harsh. Marian sat across from him, a veil drawn across her face, and only the hands folded in her lap indicated that her situation had not improved. He studied her for a moment, getting the impression that she was watching him steadily. Finally, he quietly inquired, "What's happened?"

"Death," she said sadly. "It's come for you."

He processed that, nodding slowly as he accepted what she said. "And you?" His question contained more trepidation than he intended to convey.

"I am acquainted with it."

That was not entirely an answer, but neither was it wholly a confirmation. Not that her condition left much in the way of doubt, but there was still a part of him denying what he saw, something inside of him that was sure she could not be... this. He clung to that doubt, hoarding it, telling himself that even if she were dead, she could not be talking to him. But it was difficult to deny that she looked real, sounded real, carried the same presence as a real person. And her scent-- while he was well-versed in the stench of death, something he desperately wished he was not, she did not carry it. Instead, there was only the light scent of roses that always clung to her.

Noticing the withered, blackened stalk laid across her lap, he was very grateful that she had never preferred lilies.

He glanced toward the window of the carriage, but there was a curtain drawn over it. "Where are we going?"

She gave him a delicate shrug. "That remains to be seen. All is not decided yet; it depends on you."

"I do not like these vague replies," he snapped. It was unlike her to be anything less than direct, which, while irritating, was also something of a salve to his worries. It suggested that he might not be mistaken about this all being a lie.

"I can offer you nothing else."

He stared at her in frustration, mulling over the idea that occurred to him. "Right," he muttered, his jaw setting. "Well, I'm _deciding_ to get out here."

She started, leaning forward slightly as if surprised. "What do you mean?"

He studied her opaque veil, regret burning through him like acid. "I am sorry, Marian. I love you."

"Robin, wait--" she reached for him, but it was too late.

He flung open the door of the moving carriage, and jumped out.

* * *

John exclaimed as Robin, thrown over his shoulder and limp as a rag doll until now, jerked violently.

"What's happened?" asked Much nervously.

"I don't know," John replied, looking to Djaq. She pointed at a spot on the path they were following.

"Lay him down."

Their leader had been mumbling while they hurried in what they hoped was the right direction, but had uttered nothing intelligible, and had not moved until now. Djaq checked his heartbeat and frowned; it was too rapid. His skin was too warm and flushed, as well, and that fever worried her more than anything. It was still a slight one, but its presence could mean nothing good. She was not familiar with a concoction that would do such a thing, unless--

"He has not been drugged," she said softly. "He has been poisoned."

Much took a step forward. "What? No!" He glanced around at the others, as if hoping one of them would agree; instead, they exchanged uncomfortable looks.

Will eyed Djaq. "What should we do?"

She stared at Robin's prone form. He was no longer muttering, but his hands and feet were twitching, his fingers moving, as if in a dream. If the gang did not act quickly, whatever that dream was could be the last thing he would ever see.

She hoped that, at least, it was a good dream.

"We keep moving," she told her friends.

* * *

Robin might have rolled down the hill along the side of the road indefinitely, if an aging willow tree had not broken his descent. The breath was forced from him upon impact, and he laid there for quite some time trying to gain it back. After he accomplished that, he reflected that it was not an entirely bad thing; after all, if he still had breath to lose, that meant he was not dead yet.

Or, so he assumed. He had not actually noticed whether or not Marian was breathing.

He would rather not find out.

Once he recovered, he sat up carefully, rubbing his stomach, where it felt like the tree root he landed on was still pressing in. With a wince, he got to his feet and took in his surroundings. The branches of the willow bowed over the edge of a small lake, hanging lowly enough that the ends of some limbs disappeared beneath the surface of the water. A mist hung over the lake and spread into the woods that ringed it; while the fog was not overly thick, it appeared denser due to the heavy, grey light. Gone was the sun which had illumined the barn so well; dusk was now descending upon the landscape, and clouds had accompanied it. Stepping over more roots, he went over to the water's edge. The lake appeared fairly clean, and would likely be a breathtaking sight on a clear day. Under the influence of the weather, however, it may as well have been a sheet of steel, for all that he could discern within it.

The utter lack of wind gave it a stillness that made him suddenly realize what was striking him as wrong about the scene: it was silent. Nothing moved. The leaves on the trees rested as if frozen. No birdsong carried through the air. Nothing scrabbled through the brush. All the little sounds and quirks that made him feel comfortable in the forest, that reminded him that he was never alone, were missing.

Which meant that his attention was even more quickly gained by the form emerging from the center of the lake than it might otherwise have been. She rose smoothly, swiftly, as if lifted from beneath. He could not see her well, due to the fog, but the dress clinging wetly to her form left no doubt but that she was a woman. By now, his sense of denial had faded, and he watched with a detached calm as she began walking toward him across the surface of the lake. He was prepared for Marian when she reached him.

Instead, when she was still a few yards away, she stopped. She raised her head and the dark, dripping hair parted to reveal her face-- the face of his mother. She possessed a better appearance than Marian, although her skin was devoid of color.

"You should not be here," she reprimanded him, her white lips not parting to emit the words, her voice saturating the atmosphere around them. The tones were so familiar, ingrained in his memory despite more than twenty years having passed since he last heard them. He wavered, his remove threatening to leave him and let in the emotions he was keeping at bay.

He resolutely shoved them down again where they belonged. "Then, where should I be?"

* * *

George, the Nettlestone soapmaker, was a study in remorse. John wished he thought it was an act, but he did not; nor did he disbelieve the tears of George's wife, Eliza. Their fourteen-year-old daughter, Ann, was not at home, but had been unaware of her part in the plot, anyway; and they were glad to keep her in the dark. In fact, she was not supposed to have been involved, but had overheard her parents talking about the water that they had set aside for the outlaws, and the special cup for Robin. She thought she had been showing the family's appreciation by taking over for her mother, when Eliza had been summoned to visit her ill sister in Treeton suddenly.

"The sheriff said if we didn't do it, he'd throw Eliza and me in the dungeons for taking help from you," George explained miserably. "And... and he said Ann--" His voice faltered. "He said she might disappear."

The gang collectively scowled, but their ire was now directed where it belonged: Nottingham Castle. Will, who was closest to George, placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's all right; we understand."

Djaq's face was rather less sympathetic, clearly focused on finding an antidote to the poison. "What was given to Robin?"

"I'm not sure," Eliza answered. She turned and went over to a shelf hanging along the wall in the back of the cottage, taking a small vial down. "We were told to use all of it, but I couldn't. I knew if it was meant for Robin, it was probably terrible. But, I couldn't risk losing Ann. So, I only put some of it in." Her lip quivered as she glanced over to where Robin was laid out on her bed, pale except for the bright flush in his cheeks. The fever had risen significantly, and he was now mumbling almost incessantly under his breath. None of what he said was distinguishable, which made John even angrier at the sheriff for his plan; every man deserved last words.

Taking the vial from Eliza, Djaq removed the stopper and sniffed at the contents. Nodding excitedly, she said, "I know how to make the remedy."

* * *

Robin stared at the ethereal figure before him, recognizing a feature here and there which he had not realized he had inherited from her. She regarded him evenly, her hair and gown drying as he watched, awaiting her reply.

When none was forthcoming, he repeated the query. "Where _should_ I be?"

Her eyes were impatient, but affectionately so; the gaze of a mother. "You should be caring for the people who depend on you. You should be where you are needed."

"I did not exactly request to come here," he pointed out dryly.

She acknowledged that with a barely-perceptible nod.

He hesitated, then said, "I need to know something." He could not quite finish the question, but she seemed to know.

"Marian."

Robin gave her a slight nod of his own, unknowingly mirroring the gesture perfectly.

"She was here recently. It was not her time, either."

"Then, why does she appear... in that manner?" Since her brush with death a few months earlier, he had awoken on more than one occasion from a nightmare in which she had not recovered in that cave. However, none of his dreams had been so horrific.

She tilted her head, and her forehead creased, as if she were trying to figure out how to word her explanation. "This place is not right. You should not be here yet." She closed her eyes, looking as though she was listening to something; to Robin, the area around the lake remained silent. He was surprised when a tear slipped down her cheek. "When you return, it will be as it should." He could have sworn he heard a whisper after that, and it sounded almost like, "As will she," but he could not swear to that.

Suddenly, a bolt of lightning split the sky, reflecting through the mist like a flash of daylight. Robin jumped, and his mother sighed, the sound odd when it came from all about him, rather than her lips. "I must leave now," she told him.

"Wait," he pleaded, holding out a hand in a vain effort to stop her. "How will I get out of here?"

As if she had not heard him, she repeated, "I must leave now." She stepped backward on the lake, and was about halfway to her entry point when a larger, brighter lightning bolt came right at him, somehow working its way into his mouth. His whole body went tense as the charged fire dislodged itself from the heavens and burned its way from his throat to his stomach, and then back up again. He dropped to his knees and retched into the dirt, unable to stop until he was too weak to even hold himself up anymore, and he was curled up into a wretched ball, soaked from sweat and shivering. In a whisper much like the one he had heard before, he thought she said, "I love you."

He felt a hand on his arm, and with effort, opened his eyes, wondering if his mother had been able to stay, after all. Every part of him hurt, even his eyelids, but he was facing this new world head-on.

Except, he was in his old world. Djaq was looking down at him in relief, as Much hovered behind her. Behind him were John, Will and Allan, and they were all in what seemed to be a cottage.

"Welcome back," Djaq said with a smile.

* * *

The next night, they were all in their bunks at camp, although none of them were sleeping. They were discussing how to retaliate against the sheriff.

"We cannot act drastically," Robin reminded them. He was not yet fully recovered, tiring easily and having difficulty staying warm. The extra blankets wrapped around him helped, as did Djaq's reassurances that the aftereffects of the poison should pass in the next few days. "If anything happens to Vaizey, Nottingham burns."

"Well, we can't just do nothing," Allan grumbled.

"That's right," Much agreed emphatically. Unsurprisingly, he had taken the situation the hardest, and had declared earlier that he would cheerfully march around with the sheriff's head on a pike, given the opportunity. None of them could really see him doing it, but knew that the sentiment was real. "When he tried this... this sneaky, vile,..." He trailed off, searching for the right adjective.

"Underhanded?" Djaq suggested.

"Yes! This sneaky, vile, _underhanded_ scheme, he asked for war."

"'War'?" John exclaimed. "How are we supposed to wage war on a man we can't kill?"

The solution crystallized in Robin's mind. "Money. If we deplete his funds-- especially his taxes,-- he cannot carry out his schemes. He will lose the Black Knights, and Operation Shah Mat will be defunct. And then, he is sure to lose favor with Prince John."

"We destroy him, without killing him," Will murmured. "And, we help the poor in the process."

Robin gave him an unamused grin. "Exactly. When he is destroyed, we win. The people of Nottingham win." His expression became more genuine, and more than a bit puckish. "And, this fight should actually prove to be fun."

With all of that settled, they bid each other good-night and settled down to sleep. Robin gazed up through the leafy canopy above him, noticing stars whose twinkling glow managed to shine down to him through both the trees of Sherwood, and the covering over the outlaws' camp. He knew now that everything he thought he had experienced had been nothing more than the poison affecting his mind, but it had seemed so _real_. That horrific vision of Marian had been faded somewhat by her visit earlier that day; she was unable to stay long, having had to be quite sneaky to get out of the castle in the first place, but when his friends had gotten word to her of the situation, she had quickly devised a plan. She was so clever, and so lovely; and her conversation, as well as her kisses, had worked miracles on a brain still haunted by his visions.

But there was no way to erase the image of his mother. And if he was honest, he was satisfied with that. He thought of her as he looked at the twinkling starlight, remembering what his father used to say.

Star, ghost, figment of his imagination... whatever she was now, she lived on in his memory.

As one day, he would live on in the memories of others. As would they all.

But, not today. Today, they were alive.


End file.
